Camouflage

of crack, and the heavy incense of hashish. No one was smoking heroin, but there were plenty of needles in evidence; on the buffet table three hypodermics stood point-down in a glass of clear liquid.
    The room had an unfinished look, walls freshly painted with travel posters and Gauguin reproductions thumbtacked here and there. New cheap furniture in a haphazard scatter.
    “So what can I get for you?” the black man said.
    “Hash, I guess.” The changeling thought back to its circus days. “You have squiddy black?”
    “Dream on. Most of these guys smokin’ slate.”
    The changeling shook its head. “Nothing Moroccan. What you got Asian?”
    “Red seal and gold seal. Cost you.”
    “Little bag of gold seal, how much?” He said $250 and the changeling got him down to $210.
    It took the stuff and a glass bong to a folding chair in a corner where it could survey the room.
    The hash had an interesting flavor. It burned hot, probably because of additives. A little asphalt.
    The changeling was looking for someone who looked like he was used to having money, but was down on his luck. Preferably someone not native; about a third of the men qualified on that score.
    An American would be preferable; one who resembled the changeling would make things easier to explain. There was one light-skinned black man who was fairly close to the changeling’s current appearance, though a few inches taller and considerably heavier. He was sitting backward in a folding chair, chin resting on forearm, intently following a lazy argument two men were having, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Good clothes that needed dry-cleaning.
    He was holding an empty bong. The changeling padded over and sat on the floor next to him, and relit the resin in its bong.
    “So what do you think?” one of the arguers said to the newcomer. “How old is the universe?”
    “Thirteen point seven billion years. I don’t remember half that far back, though.”
    The other one shook his hand. “Close. Sixteen billion.”
    “He’s using the Torah and general relativity,” the black man said. “Smells good.”
    The changeling held out the packet to him. “Gold seal; have a hit.” To the Torah guy: “I could spot you 2.3 billion. That’s six really long days?”
    He launched into an explanation about how small the universe had been back then. The other arguer stared at him with an expression like a spaniel trying to stay awake.
    The black man broke off a little piece, rolled it into a ball, and sniffed it. He nodded and handed the bag back. “Thanks.”
    The changeling lit a wooden match and held it up for him. He breathed the smoke in deeply and held it. After aminute he exhaled slowly and nodded satisfaction. “So what are you after?”
    “What, you don’t believe in spontaneous acts of sharing?”
    “You aren’t fucked up enough to be spontaneous with gold seal.”
    “That’s a good observation.”
    “So you want something, but it’s not drugs. Must be sex or money.” He shook his big head slowly back and forth. “Don’t have either.”
    “There is one other thing.” The changeling stood up, feigning difficulty. “Talk outside?”
    He nodded but stayed put. He held up one finger and stared at it. “Oh, and I can’t kill anybody. Don’t want to go through that again.” The two chronologists looked up at that, faces masks.
    “Nothing like that. Come on.” The man got up and walked with exaggerated care, perhaps more stoned than he looked or sounded. The changeling told their host they’d be right back.
    Some animal scampered away when the door opened. Otherwise the dark forest was silent except for water dripping.
    “This is the score. I have to be on the plane to America tomorrow. But I don’t have a ticket or a passport.”
    The man squinted at him in the faint light from the shaded windows. “Okay?”
    “So do you have a passport?”
    “Course. But no way you could pass for me.”
    “That’s not a problem. I’ve done this before.”
    “But then I’m stuck here. What do I do about that? ”
    “Nothin’ to it. I’ll mail it back to you, overnight, from L.A. But you don’t have to trust me. If you don’t get it, wait a few days and you go to the embassy and report it lost. They’ll check you out and issue a temporary; you can replace it when you get back to the States.”
    “I’d have to think about it. How much?”
    “Five thousand up front, plus the cost of a ticket. They probably just have first class